


Zhalejka

by Żeni (JD_Centric)



Series: Hetalia - Historical Notes [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Historical, Drama, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Oppression, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29925999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JD_Centric/pseuds/%C5%BBeni
Summary: "Aleksander couldn’t have sat down any quicker; a few decades later he couldn’t have run away from Turkey any quicker either and he did so without any remorse, with the deep indents of someone else’s history in his own once more."//The beginning of the Ottoman oppression on the Balkans and a promise of its end - a prologue to the Bulgarian epic and a decade of warfare and battles for national freedom//
Relationships: Bulgaria (Hetalia)/Serbia (Hetalia), Turkey/Bulgaria
Series: Hetalia - Historical Notes [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079207
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Zhalejka

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 3d of March!! I know I'm late by a lot but this really was supposed to be finished for the holiday :D Anyway, I hope you like this and, as I said, if you enjoy the story, I'm seriously thinking about turning this into a full-fledged multi-chapter saga, similar to a story I'm currently outlining detailing the Polish history tbh. I was struck by a very patriotic feeling while writing this, I watched a whole lot of videos dedicated to battles like that at Slivnitsa, Shipka, stories of Serbian authors detailing the life before national freedom, and most of all I was struck by a facebook post that I saw on the third that was the translated news article by some European journalist detailing the horrors that followed the April uprising - if I've made you curious with all of these historical events, you can always look them up because if I go on to talk about everything, this A/N will get incredibly long and I don't want to waste your time :D I will point out a few things:  
> *Zhalejka - refers to a black piece of cloth of any kind made into a ribbon and hung up usually on the door of a home where a recent death took place or the chests of grieving relatives  
> *Sbogom - literaly 's bogom', 'with God', a way to say goodbye, not that popular and a bit strong today but in the religious past I found it fitting and expressing only a best and very kind wish  
> *Ottoman oppression on Bulgaria lasted as long as 500 years and has its cultural and political consequences on the country today  
> *Greece was a religious influence on Bulgaria and thus their relationship wasn't ideal, I haven't done research on the relationship between Serbia and Greece from the period and am not sure if the religious struggle was typical for it too  
> *Lokum - refers to the so-called Turkish delight which I find a horribly odd name and found it untypical for the kind of atmosphere I wanted to set with this story, thus I used the original name

He woke up early that morning. The first roosters were yet to wake up the village and the sun was yet to shine over the earth, covered still in a layer of frost and dew. Everyone and everything was still fast asleep, only he, chased by the invisible clutches of a nightmare he had already forgotten, lay awake under his blanket, his back and limbs aching after sleeping another night on the plank-bed under the window. A steady stream of cold air whistled past the space between the wooden frame and the whitewashed wall as the unforgiving wind raged outside.

He wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore and, bothered by the feeling of unfulfillment and the need to go and finish whatever work he had missed to do the previous day, Bulgaria threw aside the knitted blanket gifted to him by Granny and got up. There was only so much he could help her with in the house before that day of the month rolled around and the more he did, the more there was to do. It was already spring, farm work didn’t wait and neither could the care for the animals be left for later.

He washed himself by the well in the yard before going to take out the animals and let the chicken out of the henhouse. By the time he was already starting to get the garden ready for sowing, the sun had begun to peek out from behind the horizon and the roosters had begun to fill the village with their cries, urging everyone to wake and get to work.

Granny got up soon after that and made breakfast before taking the plates of food outside for Aleksander to eat. He did so, mutely, as he watched her clean around whatever there was to clean in the yard and feed the animals, talking to them softly as if they were human.

“Would you believe it,” she said, staggering over to the table where Aleksander sat under the thick shade of the walnut tree, “winter seems gone already! We’ll have to think about what we will do with the field…”

“I’m almost done with the garden,” Aleksander told her, his eyes staring at the distance, as if he could take in the entire sight of the village nestled between the fruitful hills, each covered in golden grain, thick, green grass and dark soil. “I’ll have the soil turned today or tomorrow and then we can sow the potatoes.”

“I’ll take care of the vegetables then…There’s a lot of work to be done with the grapes and the fruit trees…”

“I’ll do that too,” Aleksander promised readily. “It’s still early for the cherries and the plums, we have a lot of time! I’ll fix the garden so there’s room for vegetables. The henhouse is also leaking, I’ll fix that too once I turn the soil for the potatoes…”

“You do too much,” Granny said, waving her hand dismissively. “The work won’t run away from you, you make me worried that I can’t run my own household.”

“You can’t run everything on your own. You did enough by letting me stay, despite everything, and I really can’t do enough to ever repay you, granny…”

The poor woman nearly flushed like a young girl when she heard the praise, but she said nothing to disagree. She fixed the black cover over her thin, grayed hair and put a hand over her eyes to guard them from the bright rays of the early sun when the dog began to bark, dashing towards the entrance to the yard. It had felt the newcomers before she saw them nearing the stone wall surrounding their yard. Clouds of dust followed the horses as they climbed the hill and came up the path, covered in hard, sun-dried soil.

“Who is it?” Aleksander asked her.

Worry clenched her poor heart and choked her as she watched the guests near the wooden gate and Granny turned to face Aleksander with bitterness and distress, “The aga is here, from the farm.”

Hearing that, Bulgaria stood up quickly and rushed towards the gate to open it, shushing the dog and chasing it off so it wouldn’t scare the horses of the squad that had come to get him. The gate opened with a tortured squeal of its hinges and the three horses, tall and well-fed, entered along with their owners, perched atop them and looking around with distaste and arrogance, as if they were masters.

“You came a week earlier,” Aleksander said, almost out of breath as he walked after the guards and caught up to the first horse. It was visibly the best and strongest out of the three and its owner was definitely the most arrogant out of the Turks there, his clothing rich and his posture straight, the grin on his face and his attitude only making his dominance that much more prominent and frightening.

“You’re early,” Bulgaria repeated carefully, as the two soldiers and their leader got off the horses. “We haven’t ready what we promised to give, Sadik bey. If you had come like we spoke…”

“Well, are you going to kick me out?” Turkey barked at him. He appeared to be in a good mood but that almost never meant anything good to begin with so Bulgaria couldn’t help but watch his tone. His throat was already dry. “I need you back at the farm now, we’re suddenly short of hand. You haven’t forgotten about our deal, have you?”

“Of course not, but…We haven’t everything ready, nearly half of what we’ve discussed…”

Aleksander nodded towards Granny and the old woman slowly went towards the cellar where they kept the taxes in sacks of grain and meats for the Turk.

“Don’t make excuses!” Turkey scolded him, his thunderous voice making even the large sheepdog that had until then been growling evilly at the unwanted guests jump back and crawl towards the henhouse with its tail between its legs. “I warned you about following the rules once! I think we were clear enough. No, never mind…We’ll take whatever there is to take when we come back later, we’re not going to be going back with a bottle of wine and a bag of sour apples and eggs!”

He spat before getting back up on his horse and looking down at Aleksander, “Get going. And I don’t want to hear another word!”

He laughed, his cruelty endless, and Bulgaria could do nothing but bow his head and follow after him as the horses were ushered back down the path towards the gate. He could feel Granny watching him as he walked, her eyes wet and desperate to call for him and to pull him back and away from the unjust treatment, but what could she do against Turkey when enough men had given their lives already without a point and result.

She watched the gates be closed and the dog cry after its master as he disappeared out of sight before looking back towards the table where Aleksander had sat just minutes ago. Then, as she did every month, she said a prayer and began counting the minutes until her poor boy’s return from the Turk’s farm and his tyranny.

  


The bey’s house was built far from the village, surrounded by another handful of much smaller whitewashed houses, inhabited by a few Turkish families. The moment they saw the men coming up the path, a gaggle of barefoot children and chicken rushed to greet them and ask for gifts but they chased them off, having brought nothing from the village.

The sun shone above them cruelly as they walked. The day was unforgivingly hot, tired songs filled the distance as the men and women worked in the fields, their bodies moving slowly between the grains as if every step was torturous under the weight of the humid air. There wasn’t a cloud in sight and the wind would hurt the skin with its every caress, blowing dust into the unprotected eyes and faces, wet with sweat and sunburnt.

Bulgaria didn’t wait for Turkey to tell him before leaving the bey to his private work and running right for his house. It was nearly lunchtime and Aleksander wanted to get lunch started before looking around to see what work there was to do around the yard and at home. Sadik’s chiflik was the biggest in the whole region, fitted for a king and could easily win against the homes of the most powerful and deserving pashas. Taking care of it was a burden for his subordinates and Aleksander dreaded the day he would come to take him each month to work in the chiflik.

In the yard he saw Vuk, standing atop the firewood they had chopped for winter but hadn’t burnt so he could reach over to the lower branches of the plum tree. He was carelessly picking still green, sour fruits and, after brushing the dust off them in his cotton shirt, ate them with great pleasure.

“You’re very early this spring!” He exclaimed when he noticed Bulgaria walking in. The young Serb’s face was sunburnt and Aleksander could see the sweat covering his neck and arms, despite the shade he hid under and his unbuttoned shirt. “I never see you in spring, Sadik aga makes you come long after I’m gone.”

“He said he was short of hand,” Aleksander mumbled, looking around the yard. Nothing new caught his eye.

“He ought to be. They say this year there will be draught, by the looks of things.”

“When are you leaving…?”

“Tomorrow, or the day after.”

Those words were as good as a knife to Aleksander’s already aching heart; he couldn’t even hide the spark of comfort Serbia’s presence had brought him the moment he saw him in the yard and he couldn’t have masked the hope in his voice when he had asked him. Turkey didn’t like having both of them under one roof and no matter how much time passed they couldn’t convince him to let them be together for longer. Gone were the calm days when they could interact freely – the more time passed, the tighter the leashes around their necks became.

“Go on, then,” Vuk urged him, when he saw Aleksander hesitate, “Greece is inside, go check on him, make sure he’s doing his chores. But, hey, do you know what? He’s learned to write since you were last here!”

The news was a very pleasant surprise and Aleksander almost smiled, “Really?”

“He sure did, he can spell his name now. It’s almost like he’s drawing the letters, that’s how good he’s doing.”

Caring for the still young nation wasn’t a chore they cared for or enjoyed but knowing that their good work did pay off was enough to get Bulgaria going and make his mood much better.

He got to work immediately, starting lunch and urging Greece to help him clean the yard and the house that had, while he had been gone, become much less clean. That quickly made him angry and he spent the whole afternoon scolding Greece for being lazy and irresponsible and taking advantage of Turkey’s good will towards him on their behalf. Serbia got his own talking to but unlike Heracles who was still too little to really do anything but pout at him and stomp his feet, he bit right back with a few good comments of his own.

The pressure was quickly relieved when Bulgaria sat the table under the green crown of the walnut tree and for himself and Vuk put a pot of rakija to warm on the stove.

Sadik bey didn’t come for lunch and while they ate dinner later that day, they did hear commotion from one of the other houses, a sure sign that maybe he was having dinner somewhere else. One of the neighbourhood boys did run over to warn them that the bey had ordered them not to wait for him and to bring in the cattle, which Vuk offered to do.

When the boss did come home it was already late. Only Bulgaria and Serbia were still up, drinking slowly while they caught up, speaking in hushed voices so Greece wouldn’t wake up and overhear – he might have been little but he had a big mouth on himself that neither really trusted. They shut up completely only when they heard the front door open and shut and Turkey stumble inside, most likely too drunk to stay upright. Bulgaria’s heart ached at the thought of having to usher him to bed, knowing how bad of a drunk Sadik had become in the past few months.

Knowing that he really didn’t want to be near him, Serbia finished his drink and went to see if the bey needed any help – by the look on his face he wasn’t any more pleased to do it than Bulgaria would’ve been.

Their eyes met for a moment when Vuk tried to help Sadik along towards his room and maybe, despite his drunkenness, he recognized him because his eyes narrowed and became frighteningly bright, like two smoldering pieces of coal. They lit Aleksander’s own soul ablaze but he held his own and bravely met Turkey’s glare. He did sigh in relief when he was gone, however.

When Vuk returned he had already made his bed, figuring that he did deserve it, after calming Turkey down and making him go to bed without any other theatrics and presentations of power. By the time Aleksander came back from checking in on the sleeping Greece, Vuk was already snoring quietly, but it would take him hours of rolling around beside him for Aleksander too to fall asleep. Being back in the chiflik made it impossible to feel peace and robbed him of sleep, knowing that Sadik slept just a wall away.

  


He woke up after no more than a few hours of light slumber and, to miss the heat of the sun, got up to go and take out the animals. The air was already humid and as heavy as a woolen blanket by the time Aleksander had started breakfast.

He had just gone out to pick a few small, green apples from the tree, helping himself to a few bites from one and chewing carefully while making faces at the sour taste of it when Bulgaria felt someone’s strong arms wrap around him from behind. He yelped in surprise and dropped the bowl of apples, preparing himself to land a blind punch to the intruder’s face when the hold on him loosened and he felt someone’s hot breath on his neck.

“You son of a bitch,” he laughed, hearing Serbia’s throaty growl, muffled into his neck. He could feel the noise rumble deep his chest. “You scared me!”

“And why are you so jumpy, acting like some Turkish hajduk’s going to come and steal you! You’re up early…”

“Couldn’t sleep. I let the animals out.”

“Get me a horse ready,” Serbia ordered, not letting go. His voice had become hushed all of a sudden, bitter. “And food for the way. I’m leaving today, before the heat.”

“So early…” Bulgaria muttered, pushing the other off when he didn’t let go. He had been warned that Vuk wouldn’t stay long yesterday but somehow he hadn’t wanted to believe it. “Alright…Go wash yourself and have breakfast, the horse will be outside for you.”

Serbia reached out for him again but Aleksander didn’t let himself be caught a second time, avoiding him while he got for him a bag of food and one of the faster horses ready for the trip home.

Just before the sun had come up fully, the two were already standing outside, facing the road towards the village. Bulgaria had barely said a word all morning and, sensing his silent grieve, Serbia was afraid to talk to him and make jokes.

“If the agha allows it,” he said, once he was up on the horse, “we can see each other soon. He’ll need a lot of hand once autumn comes.”

“With how dry the earth is, I doubt there will be what to work come autumn,” Bulgaria muttered, looking anywhere but at Serbia. “We’ll see once it comes. God be with you, Vuche.”

“I wish you health,” Vuk replied to the greeting, “and luck. Be careful what you do and say in front of the agha.”

“I’m…not afraid of him,” Aleksander lied.

“I wish you health, Aleksandre,” Vuk repeated, his voice gentle, as he urged the horse to go.

“S bogom,” Bulgaria said, just as quietly, as he watched him go.

He stood on the path for many minutes after, until Vuk was but a dot in the distance. When he finally found the strength to walk back inside the yard, Greece was already up, looking at him from the doorway to the house. When he realized that Bulgaria had caught him looking, however, he quickly ducked back inside.

Except for the fact that he was now responsible for Vuk’d part of the household chores, nothing that concerned Aleksander changed in the days following his companion in suffering’s leave. He did keep in mind his warning and as elated as he was that Sadik aga still thought of what he had done and what he could do, he did try to keep himself out of his eyes whenever he could.

It became much more complicated when Turkey had work to do at home or when he called people over – those were the nights Bulgaria found most lonely but he barely had time to think of that. Other things tortured his mind, things centred around cooking, cleaning, serving the table and making sure there wasn’t a plate or glass empty, entertaining the bey and his idea of ownership. Those were the nights he felt most out of control.

Turkey had prepared him early one morning, just a few days following Serbia’s departure, that he would be having guests over to celebrate the spring and the change of weather, thus Aleksander was expected to finish his housework as quickly as he could so he would have time to cook. It wasn’t yet sundown when Sadik returned with a group of men and Aleksander sat them down on the table in the yard before running in to return with a clay pitcher of alcohol. He made Greece take out the food on purpose, because Turkey liked having him around serving guests for some reason or other and the young nation did that with great displeasure. Bulgaria wasn’t the only one that hated having guests over, especially the apparent elite of the Turkish military and society.

Bulgaria had forgotten how stressful such gatherings were. He himself wasn’t the quietest drinker but Turkey and his men put him at such unease it was unbearable, their crude language and laughter and the filth they carried made it much harder to accept the situation and try to find a shard of positivity in it. Even the few drinks he had had through the evening barely managed to calm him and the music with its constant drumming rhythm gave him a headache more than anything.

He finally allowed Greece go to bed when an attempted joke went too far and the poor kid choked on a gulp of alcohol forced into his mouth by one of the already drunk men. When it became obvious that Sadik found it funny rather than demand they stop bothering him, Heracles ran into the house and Aleksander had to excuse himself quietly to check that he really did go to bed instead of just hide somewhere he wouldn’t be able to find him later.

The night ended in the same fashion for him as it did for Greece, with crying and cursing the unjust done to him in bed until he finally did manage to fall asleep in the late hours of the night. Of course, there was much to happen before that but to put it simply, Turkey had been drunk enough to not let him hide all night in Greece’s room and Bulgaria would hate, despite everything, to make a scene and embarrass himself when he could preserve what was left of his dignity at least.

There was nothing unnatural, really, in his predicament, only this time the more it happened he could feel the utter hatred and disgust beginning to overwhelm him and he’d knock his head against the wall the next morning, wondering what he had done to deserve a faith worse than disappearing even. Every morning after – after a night with Sadik and his filth – he’d stand outside, gaze at what he’d lost to the Turkish vermin and wish for the earth to open and swallow him and his pity so he wouldn’t have to look anyone in the eye ever again.

  


That morning, in the odd state between sleep and wakefulness, he had a nightmare so horrible Aleksander forgot about it the moment he awoke.

It was a vision so real that he could smell the death and fire and he could feel the weight of a sword in his hands as the bloodied blade cut through the air, cloudy with dust and smoke, only to slice into the bits of unguarded flesh of the invader. Fatigue drained him and his body, weighed down by his armor, was slowly succumbing to the results of a battle that had carried on for hours now. And while his men had fought for only so long, he felt like had been fighting for years with the catastrophic results – the vermin couldn’t be pushed out of their borders, like rats they wiggled on and like pests, they contaminated every piece of land they stepped on.

A horse ran behind him and, in his attempt to duck out of the swords reach, Aleksander lost his own balance and was knocked down on the ground. The air was knocked out of his lungs and he dropped his sword – taking his evident lack of composure as a chance, one of the Ottoman swordsmen landed his foot on his unguarded back and his sword pierced through his shoulder where the armor had exposed him.

The blood spilled in rivulets and it was the sight of it that made Aleksander scream, in shock and rising panic rather than pain – the first pangs of it came soon after and no amount of struggling could force the man above him to let him go. More soldiers of the same vermin kind surrounded him to see him pitifully try to wriggle away to no avail and they laughed at him and spat curses and foul words in their language that was odd but unpleasant to the ear.

Only when he began to finally feel his body and senses betraying him to the exhaustion and blood loss and his vision become dark did the horrible laughter end; everyone seemed to turn towards another person approaching and with all of his willpower Aleksander tried to raise his head and see who had just arrived – for all he knew it could be saviour finally but he had no such luck. Only a pair of shoes graced his vision momentarily before his heavy head hit the ground and he lost all senses.

He was awoken rudely by a pair of hands grabbing onto him and pulling him onto his feet. At first glance, though startled by the yelling in a language he couldn’t even comprehend and the rough handling, Aleksander wasn’t amidst battle anymore. He had no way of telling how long it had been since he had fallen wounded but the immediate instinct to preserve himself made him forget all about the pain he still felt embracing him like a cover of heated lead and struggle against the solid hold of his captors.

They were unrelenting, however, as they dragged him through what seemed to be the camp of the enemy, a handful of tents made of animal leather and flags that, upon recognizing them, made Aleksander’s blood turn cold.

He was dragged kicking and screaming towards a more luxurious-looking tent, much bigger than the ones surrounding it and better decorated, that of their commander or however the vermin called their leader. Aleksander didn’t want to face him, not at all. His stomach sank at the mere thought of who could be waiting for him inside that tent and his feet refused to support him. It was the mere thought of how many other this beast had trampled over and made to succumb, of how many neighbouring towns and villages and cities he had pillaged and burnt to the ground, that made him sick and not only anxious but terrified of facing the same fate.

Inside the tent, the two guards threw him on the ground with little care and the impact and the pain it caused stunned Aleksander enough that all thoughts of jumping up and dashing towards the entrance left his aching head. He heard voices all around him, speaking quickly in the unknown to him tongue, discussing the prisoner and his state some with interest and others with unmasked cruelty. The commotion carried on until one man called for them all to stop and quiet, his thunderous voice rising above them and crashing back down like an unforgiving wave.

Only then did Aleksander gather the courage and strength to rise to his knees and, kneeling before the vermin, he looked up at the man that had taken him captive.

“You are…the Ottoman empire…”

The words tore from him much like a naïve and frightened question, for the man looked nothing like he had imagined he would – secretly, Aleksander had hoped that he would never in his life face him and that the threat would be stopped before they had to cross swords. In his mind, the empire had been a big man, covered in furs and hair, dirty and unkempt – a stark contrast to all the enemies he had faced through the centuries, considering all the horrible things he had heard about him. On the contrary, the empire was young or appeared to be no older than Byzantium, broad in the shoulders and chest and short-haired. He was finely dressed in pretty materials that spoke of a royal descend and his posture hinted towards the same pride and empyreal composure.

To kneel before such a man made Aleksander ashamed – he too was an empire but he looked nothing like it now.

“And you’re the runt that’s been a torn in my eye for as long as I set foot here,” the empire barked, lips stretching into a grin wide enough to reveal two rows of teeth. “Just when I thought you were done for, you show up! I was told you were no more years ago…”

“No,” Aleksander denied, wondering just how such rumours could have arisen, despite the almost complete lack of communication between all of them. “There is and won’t ever be such a thing…”

“Well, I am here to see about that!” The empire declared. “And as I’ve decided, with the help of an official court, I say that from this day on, there won’t be an empire by your name anymore. It’s that simple!”

“You can’t decide that…!” Aleksander yelled, his voice almost cracking with outrage. “Who do you even think you are! You come here and dare to make fools of us all, you murder and burn and now you stand in front of me without shame and declare that there will be no Bulgarian empire? Who are you to decide such a thing when you’re merely a guest in Europe!”

The empire and his staff that had gathered in the tent all erupted in cruel laughter and Aleksander could tell what they had found so amusing. Such a conversation concerning diplomacy would have never gone such a way if he had been talking to someone else, if he had led negotiations with Serbia, with the Franks and Hungary and most of all with Byzantium…

“Who am I?” The empire roared, once the laughter died down, “Who am I! You dare ask yourself that stupid question still – _I_ am the Ottoman empire, _I_ am your ruler from this day onward, _I_ own your lands and people!”

“But you can’t…” Aleksander persisted childishly, feeling embarrassment again replace his anger. He had been an empire for so many centuries now and here he was, being made to feel like a mere child in the presence of someone who couldn’t be more than half his own age. Worst of all, he felt fear strike him again as he realized the situation he was in and that saviour would not be on its way. “This is outrageous, you can’t make such decisions…Byzantium, where’s the empire? He’ll tell you right away that you can’t…”

He stuttered, as the Ottoman empire stood from the cushions where he had sat royally to approach him.

“And who is this Byzantium?” He asked before a spark of recollection graced him, “Oh, you mean that one, that tried to keep me out at the very beginning! Well, I have a word to say about him as well – there is no such empire anymore. He ran away from battle like a wounded animal, to die on his own, so I guess that neither you nor I would ever be asking him anything anymore.”

He turned towards his men and told him in his tongue, perhaps, how entertaining their little conversation had been because next Aleksander knew, they were laughing at him again. The lack of respect and the utter nerve he could barely take and he couldn’t believe either that Byzantium had fallen to such a person, not when he had tried to knock him over with wit and by force and hadn’t ever come close to success.

Overwhelmed by those emotions of disbelief and hurt, he stood up and threw himself at the Ottoman empire, as if he could hurt him in his state. His action stirred commotion among the two guards and the apparent council but before anyone could stand up and drag him away, the empire had already grabbed him by the remains of his vest and without sparing his force, landed a swift punch to his jaw. The impact would’ve easily sent him to the ground wasn’t the empire holding him, though for a single moment Aleksander couldn’t tell if he was alive or not anymore, so painful and jarring was the hit.

When he opened his eyes again he could see the Ottoman empire looking down at him with such fury and fire in his dark eyes that it turned his blood cold.

“You really want to go to the place this Byzantium went, don’t you?” The empire spat and though Aleksander could barely hear his voice over the deafening ringing in his ears he could tell by the pressure in his jaw that the intonation and tone couldn’t be anything but threatening. “Allah, I swear, you people here are just hungry to be shown who’s in charge!”

He threw Aleksander back on the ground and knelt over him while spitting orders at the guards and talking to his council. He grabbed Aleksander’s wounded arm and carelessly twisted it around until he had it pressed behind his back, the instant bout of pain tearing a scream so high out of him that it could almost be mistaken for that of a child.

“No, please…” he begged quietly, feeling bile rising to his throat, “Please, please, let me go, _please_ …”

“What?” The empire asked, “You plead? You dare plead now?! And I thought of you as a man…”

He bent his arm further back and Aleksander twisted under the horrible weight in an attempt to either dislodge him or to lessen the pressure on his shoulder and arm.

“Stop, please!” He yelled, “I said stop! God, please, don’t do anything to me, Lord, help me, Byzantium, please, _help me_ …!”

Hearing the enemy's name be uttered so desperately, the Ottoman empire stopped and without loosening his grip he leaned forward until he could whisper in Aleksander’s ear so the rest wouldn’t hear.

“Let me make something clear now,” he calmly said, “so there will never be another misunderstanding between us again. There is and never will be any empire of that name anymore. He was killed, by my hand, his cities burnt and his people no more, and if I hear you plead for him one more time, your fate will not be different and I will make sure to be as merciless as I was towards the Byzantine empire.”

Every word was emphasized by a tug on his injured arm but Aleksander, stunned by the deep, falsely comforting voice that was able to speak such horrible threats, could barely breathe, let alone voice his pain.

He wanted to throw up…

“Now that you’ve understood that,” the Ottoman empire said, his free hand carrying on his way down Aleksander’s body, “I want no further trouble from you…And you better pray that I’ve made myself clear enough.”

  


He must’ve cried in his sleep, for his twisting and turning had caught the bey’s attention not much before sunrise.

Wordlessly, he had raised the cover over him again and in the silence of the room he had listened to gasps and stuttering breathing while his warm, heavy palm rubbed gentle circles across the exposed skin, bringing along nothing but goosebumps.

  


More often than not it was easy to tell that he wasn’t in a good mood or that, perhaps, something bad had happened. He had been for some time now a very distant person and incredibly absent-minded at times, so when his eyes grew dull and he stared off into the distance somewhere, people knew to raise their voices a bit louder to get through to him.

Sometimes that change of tone would startle Bulgaria and ruin his mood quite easily, such was the case that morning when Greece called out to him to show him what he had written. The longer he did that the quicker he too became annoyed that Bulgaria wasn’t paying him any attention but was stuck ogling the branches of the apple tree.

When Heracles finally did manage to catch his attention with one particularly high-pitched whine, Aleksander shot a glance so bitter and cold his way that his eyes were nearly hidden behind the lids – so narrowed were they.

“What?” He barked, as if he had been listening the entire time but had avoided paying Greece any attention until then.

“I’m finished,” Heracles sassily declared.

“Did you read the passage?”

“You weren’t listening!”

“Then read it again.”

“But you’ll get lost in your head again…”

“I won’t,” Bulgaria promised dryly, “stop trying to get out of it, come on. You can read it once more, it’s a small passage!”

“I want something sweet…” Greece complained, slouching back into the bench he sat on with a pout.

Too tired to argue with him today and knowing that there was no way of winning, Bulgaria stood, “Alright, I’ll go peal you an apple…Just, _please_ , do your schoolwork.”

_Look at you_ , he thought, standing at the door as he watched Greece do the opposite of what he had asked him and try to get one of the cats to come over to the table – _commanding people around and pouting like a child when it doesn’t go your way, like some empire_.

With that in mind, Bulgaria shook his head and went inside to go get a plate and knife.

  


On the first of March, he tied red and white neckless around the necks of the cats, hung a red and white knot on the nails in the henhouse and barn and around one of the branches of the walnut tree – all of that to mark the holiday and as a sign of luck and health.

Sometimes, Aleksander made mistakes – sometimes, he was sorry for them. Other times he felt foolish for having made them time and time again, much like that one morning following the day he saw the first swallows circling around the barns and looking for a comfy spot inside to build their nests of clay and hay.

“I would love to take Heracles home for Easter,” he told Sadik, looking up from his work of cleaning a whole chicken for dinner. Meanwhile, the Turk was washing his hands in the stone basin from the blood that he couldn’t avoid and had gotten all over him – maybe that wasn’t the best of times to ask a question that could get him in trouble depending on the bey’s mood.

“No,” was Sadik expected reply but it came in a calm tone and without any unwanted changes of mood. In fact, for once Turkey even explained, “I’d prefer him here, helping with the chores. There isn’t any time for holidays.”

“Alright, I understand…” Bulgaria agreed. The try had been noble, at least, and he’d have what to tell Greece when he asked to celebrate.

Sadik had always been lenient when it came to their faith, he had even allowed him to help build a church in the village. There were though boundaries that had to be kept in mind, of course…

Another type of boundary Turkey himself didn’t understand but it certainly could be way worse; Aleksander thought so to himself most times it happened, before and during, sometimes even after he lay catching his breath while Sadik washed himself. Maybe it would’ve been easier to understand and live with were they people but they weren’t and the single fact brought a whole new meaning to their private relationship – each time Bulgaria told himself that maybe things weren’t as bad as they could be was a step closer to his life ending slowly and painfully in the empire’s hands.

Sometimes it was easier to forget and for that weakness he blamed himself. No matter how hard Turkey tried to carve himself into his history, he couldn’t ever make an exception – it hadn’t been like that before the circumstances.

Even nations, no matter the consequences of their existence, were in their first decades and centuries children. Some of them were foolish and trusting and were easy to fall in the political traps and tricks of their older neighbours. Wars were mere scrapes on the knees, invasions and dictatorships passed in the blink of an eye – they had to, for their immortality was unquestionable, their long lives and that of languages, cultures, traditions and names were meant to carry on.

Bulgaria had been, given that way of thinking, a child when Byzantium came into his life and he had paid his fair share of taxes as payment for his trust. Byzantium had taught him to survive in the times of diplomatic and national crisis and had taught him more than three golden tricks to fair well until the turmoil passed. For that reason, Bulgaria had loved him and for that reason he was alive now and Byzantium not.

What was unforgivable was the thought that Turkey could ever be an equal replacement – that never became clear to Sadik. Aleksander didn’t even blame him; what could he think? When the person you kept in your bed and whose skin you crawled under with each passing decade and new generation more often than not told you he loved you while writhing under you, what else was there to think?

And so the decades passed.

  


Sadik agha came home late, stumbling, one evening. Aleksander had just fallen asleep when the squeaking floorboards woke him up. Heracles was already fast asleep beside him but he wouldn’t be for long either if the bey caused a ruckus…

The bedroom door opened and, as expected, Sadik looked inside, supporting himself on the doorframe and obviously drunk.

“Come to bed,” he ordered, as quietly as he could manage.

“Greece is sleeping,” Aleksander warned gently, slowly sitting up and fully awake now. He got up a bit faster when he saw Sadik trying to walk in and drag him out, “No, no, no, I’m coming, alright…here, just let me…”

He helped Turkey out of the room and softly shut the door, bracing himself for what was to happen and hating himself just as much for not putting up a manlier fight. Some other time maybe.

Sadik was already in bed by the time Aleksander walked inside his room, as he was dressed and not making a move to take off the clothes that hung over his frame, dirty and drenched in sweat from the long day of being outside. He waved Aleksander over and as soon as he was in reach, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down on the bed to lay beside him.

“Stay here,” he said, the alcohol slurring his words and making them almost impossible to understand.

“What?” Aleksander whispered back, raised his head to look up at the bey but Sadik only made him lay back down, much to his concern and confusion.

“Just lay down…stay with me tonight…” he all but pled and never in the many years he had spent under his roof had Aleksander hear his voice so genuine.

“Has something happened?” He felt complied to ask.

Turkey was fast asleep before he could reply, though maybe even if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have anything to say.

Wordlessly and without giving even himself an explanation, Aleksander turned to fit more comfortably under Sadik’s heavy arm and lay his head on his chest; his teeth had bitten his lips bloody already.

  


He woke up early the next morning and got up almost as quickly as he opened his eyes, driven by the feeling of having left something unaccomplished. He washed himself outside and let the animals out before going back to the house to start making breakfast – everything he could think of putting on the table, Aleksander made. From bread to traditional pastries both sweet and savory, fruits and even lokum in a small plate. He steamed tea and even fluffed the pillows where Sadik agha liked to lean into whenever he smoked in the living room. He had set the table by the time the sun began to shine through the thin curtains and with a deep inhale, Bulgaria took in all the pleasant scents that now engulfed the room, his mind set and certain that his attempt to make up with the bey would be fruitful.

No word could describe the surprise written all over Sadik’s face when he finally walked into the room and, still very much drowsy and half-asleep, the sight of the large breakfast and beautiful table came before him. Of course, he wasn’t as surprised that Aleksander had taken the opportunity to get up earlier and make breakfast, that he did every day, what surprised him was the excess of food.

“Tea?” Bulgaria readily asked when the bey sat down and, rubbing his eyes and aching head still, tried to decide what he wanted to start with first.

“Go on,” Turkey urged, baffled by how eagerly Bulgaria filled his tea glass.

“That one’s with apple and the other with cheese and leek,” he explained, pointing at the different pastries, “would you want anything else?”

“When did you make all of this…?”

“Just this morning.”

“Did Greece help?”

“Oh, I let him sleep in. He’s learned to write and read very well, I thought he deserved a reward. And he’s doing his chores every day without complaining a single bit.”

“That’s surprising…”

The bey took a piece of pastry from the plate of baked clay and began to chew slowly, eyeing Bulgaria carefully. He stood by the corner of the room, waiting to either be excused or perhaps invited and as he had never acted so out of character – he was usually gloomy, tense and in a hurry for one thing or other.

“About last night…” Sadik began but quickly trailed off, as if he were embarrassed.

“It never happened?” Aleksander offered, thinking that maybe that’s what Turkey was hinting at. Instead of explaining or finishing his thought, however, the empire merely waved him over.

“Sit down and pour yourself a glass of tea,” he said. “You’ve made too much food for three people, make Greece go bring some to the neighbours.”

Aleksander couldn’t have sat down any quicker; a few decades later he couldn’t have run away from Turkey any quicker either and he did so without any remorse, with the deep indents of someone else’s history in his own once more.


End file.
